“Do nothing rash. I wish to be the one who takes your worthless life.”

She frowned at his laugh. Did he believe she was jesting?

Callused fingers brushed along her cheek and lifted her chin. When he knelt next to her, Lyonesse was surprised to find him so near. Amazed that he’d removed his battle glove so quickly and so quietly.

His breath warmed the flesh beneath her ear as he spoke. “Little Lioness, my worthless life will be yours to take.”

The loud, rapid beating of her heart drowned out the sounds of the coming battle. His lips touched hers lightly as if seeking permission.

Her thoughts tumbled against each other in their rush to her head.

She hated him.

Yet his mere presence disarmed her soul. Embers glowing red with warmth filled her senses with a new, unfamiliar confusion.

Lyonesse pressed her lips against his….

Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce debut author DENISE LYNN

#643 THE SCOT

Lyn Stone

#644 THE MIDWIFE’S SECRET

Kate Bridges

#646 THE LAW AND KATE MALONE

Charlene Sands

Falcon’s Desire
Denise Lynn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and DENISE LYNN

Falcon’s Desire #645

Thank you—

Kim and Tracy, for taking the chance.

Lori and Tony, for being the best fairy Godparents ever.

Tom, my hero, my knight in armor, for being the model I build heroes on, the shoulder I lean on and the foundation I build dreams on. I love you, yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Prologue

Scarborough—Yorkshire

England—1142

Murder.

The accusation rippled through the crowded hall. Carried from one courtier to the next, the word found its way back to the man accused of the foul deed.

Murder.

“Rhys, Lord of Faucon, for the murder of Guillaume du Pree your lands and properties are forfeit to the crown.”

The black-robed holy man smiled with satanic glee as he finished his proclamation. “Your life will be forfeited to the devil you have served.”

From his chair on the raised dais King Stephen leaned forward. “Rhys?” He waited but a heartbeat before continuing. “Faucon, have you nothing to say?”

Rhys wanted to say much, but he bit back his sarcastic retort. The hard, cold floor beneath his knees helped keep his tongue in check. Chained like a dog, he was in no position to test King Stephen’s humor.

Instead, Rhys searched the crowded hall for one ally who would vouch for his honor. Those who would do so were oddly absent from this gathering.

He strained against the chains binding his arms behind him. His muscles burned with pain. Rhys glanced across the torch-lit hall, seeking the three men who’d roused him from his much-needed slumber. They glared back at him. Their odd array of blackening eyes, swollen lips and bloodied noses gave him a measure of satisfaction. He’d not made their task an easy one.

“Answer your king!” The cleric scurried toward Rhys. The man’s robe flapped about his stout legs.

Rhys looked up at King Stephen, ignoring what seemed to him nothing more than a short, cawing crow. He weighed his words carefully. His life and the continued welfare of his family rested on his ability to control his tongue. “Sire, I have killed many men while serving under your standard. Who is to say whether those who perished during the heat of battle were friend or foe?”

“No one asked you about an honorable battle. We are speaking of a coward’s ambush.” The squawking man positioned himself in front of Rhys. With fisted hands resting on his ample hips, the holy man glowered at him.

Even though Rhys knelt on the floor, the cleric’s hard stare was nearly at eye level. This man of God—if he truly was—had the power to take away all Rhys held dear. And it seemed at this moment a possibility.

The cleric shook his fist at Rhys. “You whoreson of the devil. What say you for killing the good master du Pree?”

Rhys burned the man’s features into his mind. He would not forget, nor forgive, the man’s actions this day.

He addressed the king. “Who accuses me of this foul deed?”

The cleric sputtered. “Who? What matter does that make? You are guilty and the Lord Almighty will see justice done.”

The noise in the hall grew louder as those gathered voiced their opinion of du Pree’s murder.

“Enough!” King Stephen’s shout brought a semblance of order to the hall. He instructed the guards to release the bonds, then motioned to Rhys and ordered, “Follow me.”

After struggling to his feet, Rhys waited impatiently as a guard freed him from the chains. While rubbing the circulation back into his burning arms, he followed the king. The hissing of disappointment shadowed his departure. Vultures behaved better than the scavengers gathered here.

Certain his executioner awaited him, Rhys paused in the doorway to the small chamber where King Stephen led him. He cautiously peered inside and almost cried aloud with relief. The room was empty save for the presence of William, the Earl of York.

His allies may have been absent from the hall, but here in this private chamber the only supporter Rhys needed raised a goblet to herald his arrival.

Once the three occupants were seated, Stephen addressed both men. His focus riveted on Rhys, the king began, “Faucon, by permitting the tales about you to grow unchecked, you have brought this upon yourself.”

Stephen grew silent, giving Rhys time to realize the truth of his words. It was not a lie. He’d enjoyed the tales told of the evil Faucon—even if they were not true. His overblown reputation won more than half the battles he’d engaged in, saving him and his men from any defeat.

But defeat loomed before him now.

With a slight wave of his hand, the king motioned toward the door. “While some of the barons call for your life, it seems not all believe this cry of murder. Just as they didn’t believe the cry before. However, this time much more hangs in the balance. I can ill afford to lose any of the supporters I have over this accusation.”

Again, the king spoke the truth. This battle for the throne cost much. Every supporter who left Stephen’s side to fight with the Empress Matilda took along their men and gold. Regardless of any friendship, Stephen could not permit this matter to come between him and his quest to keep the throne.

Rhys leaned forward and swore, “Sire, upon my honor as a loyal knight and subject, I have killed no man in such a cowardly fashion.”

Stephen shook his head. “Your word held little weight when Alyce died, yet most looked the other way. We are not now speaking of a vile-tongued wench. Guillaume du Pree was well liked by some and mistrusted by others. I am afraid, Rhys, that outside of this chamber, your word means nothing.”

Rhys flinched under the reminder of his faithless wife. Over five years had gone by. When would the mere mention of her name not cause his heart to constrict? He pushed the memory down into the recesses of his mind. “I can prove my innocence with nothing but my word.”

“You need find another way—quickly. The men gathered here are bored, Rhys. A trial by combat would alleviate that condition.”

Had the king cleaved him with a battle-ax, Rhys would not have been more shocked. His mouth went dry at the thought of proving his innocence in a fight where fairness and honor would be missing. Neither battle, nor death frightened him. However, his accusers would arrange this event, going to great lengths to ensure his death and the loss of his family’s wealth and honor.

Rhys swallowed his uncertainty before admitting, “I can think of no other way.” Against unimaginable odds, he would simply have to win.

“Let us not be hasty.” William took a long draught of wine and then stared at Rhys over the rim of his goblet. “You are forgetting that someone did commit the murder.”

“True. And this someone does need to be found.” King Stephen agreed with William’s statement of the obvious before adding, “Within the next four weeks.”

Chapter One

Northern England—1142

A raspy grumble shattered the early morning quiet of the forest. “He is not coming.”

“Shh!” If Edmund hadn’t been her best archer, Lyonesse of Ryonne would have left the complainer at the keep.

She hoped the Lord of Faucon would pass this way before the sun fully rose. The lengthening rays already broke through the dense foliage, casting thick slivers of sparkling light on the dew-covered moss below. The full light of day would provide little concealment for the men hiding in the trees and bushes.

A rustling of branches preceded another grumble. “This is daft. By the time he arrives I will be too stiff to move.”

“Cease. He will be here soon.” If their prey didn’t arrive shortly, she feared the men would desert their posts.

Nay, that was a senseless worry. These were Guillaume’s men. They’d brought his body to her at Taniere and remained. Each swore their allegiance not to her father, the Lord of Ryonne, but to her, the rightful mistress of Taniere.

With her betrothal to Guillaume du Pree all was in place for her to retain her responsibilities as the Mistress of Taniere. Until Faucon had turned all her hopes and dreams to dust.

He would pay for all he took from her. Lyonesse scanned the men around her. They would help her exact revenge.

Their leader, John, had devised this plan to capture Faucon. By spreading word about Guillaume’s death and telling all who would listen of Faucon’s cowardice, John had been certain the murderer would seek him out. When the vile knave came looking for John, they would all be ready.

Lyonesse swallowed back the ever-threatening tears. While the act of capturing the Devil of Faucon would not lessen the tears, it would lighten her heart to know she’d avenged Guillaume.

If God smiled upon her quest for revenge, she’d have Faucon’s lifeless body at her feet this day. By the time she finished with him, everyone would know he was not the great bird of prey they’d dubbed him. She would relish proving the tales false. All would know he was nothing more than a man. A man who could die like any other.

The abrupt rustling of bushes and tree limbs from farther up the path signaled the approach of riders.

Lyonesse peered through the branches and smiled. Their wait was almost at an end.

Rhys tugged lightly at the reins. The stallion suddenly became skittish. Steps that had been sure and steady a moment ago, now faltered. The horse weaved back and forth across the road, snorting and tossing his head.

“Easy, boy.” He patted the thick, black neck in an attempt to calm the animal. The usually placid beast rolled his eyes to look up at the rider. Rhys agreed with the wild glance. He felt it, too—something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck tingled with anticipation. A flash of cold passed down his spine.

He raised his hand, bringing the five men following him to a halt.

Rhys slowly continued ahead. He stared into the woods, but could see nothing that should upset the horse, or himself, in this manner. Yet the forest was too silent. He reached down and touched the wooden scabbard encasing his sword.

A shrill whistle split the air. Rhys gripped his knees tighter into the rearing horse’s ribs. He grasped the hilt of his sword with one hand and yanked at the reins with his other.

His men charged forward. In the same instant another force dropped from the trees and sprang from behind bushes, effectively cutting Rhys off from his men.

Before he could pull his sword free, a thick fisherman’s net dropped over him and his horse. He clawed and tore at the confining snare, cursing his inability to free himself.

“Nay. Hold.” In the din of swords crossing and men cursing, his shout went unheeded.

Gloved hands reached out and jerked at his steed’s bridle. When the animal was brought to an unwilling stop, Rhys felt the sharp tip of metal press into his side.

Unable to swing his sword, he kicked out and knocked the threatening blade away. Three more blades quickly replaced the one. After forcing his fingers to relax, he dropped his own sword and shouted for his men to hold their weapons.

They immediately followed his order and offered no resistance as the enemy escorted them back down the road.

One of the men holding a sword to Rhys’s side asked, “Are you prepared to die, Faucon?”

Rhys gritted his teeth against the sharp pain of a blade twisting through the links of his chain mail and into his flesh.

A small figure dropped from a tree limb. “Nay! Hold your sword, Sir John. I want him taken alive. For now.”

Rhys sucked in a quick breath when his assailant pushed and twisted the blade a little more before pulling the tip free. The jagged cut would not heal as quickly as a clean slice. He had an insane urge to bellow in rage when his blood ran hot down his side. He would rather die from a well-aimed blade than from an infection.

Aiming his attention down at the newcomer, Rhys sought to ignore the fire burning from his wound. Surely this wasn’t their leader? Huge, green eyes stared out of a small, pale face. This was nothing more than a child.

Rhys lifted one eyebrow. A child playing knight in his grandsire’s old, hardened-leather armor. How long was the lad going to just stand there and say nothing? Rhys had not the leisure to partake in any childish pranks.

A leather glove too large for the hand it covered quickly swiped through the air. Rhys growled as the men around his horse reached up and pulled him from the animal.

The confining net prevented him from landing on his feet. He gasped at the pain jolting through his side, yet Rhys rolled to his knees the instant he hit the ground.

He swung his tightly balled hand at the closest face. The pleasure he felt as his fist made contact with flesh was short-lived. He immediately quit struggling when the cold bite of a sword slipped easily between the links of his hauberk and coif to press briefly against his neck.

While three men kept their swords trained on his chest, two others tore away the net. Thoughts of escape flooded his mind, but the idea vanished as the man called John leveled the side of his blade against Rhys’s neck. No one moved. Instead, they looked to the boy for guidance.

Rhys glared at the lad. His heart lurched to his throat at what he perceived.

Unblemished, pale flesh was broken by full, rose-hued lips. A courtesan would kill for lashes as long as the red-tinged ones framing the overlarge eyes. It would take more than ill-fitting armor to hide the female beneath men’s clothing.

Certain the shimmering glare would lacerate him as surely as any uncut emerald, Rhys returned the glowering stare and asked, “What do you want from me?”

“I want nothing from you, Faucon.” She laughed at him. “Nothing, except your worthless soul.”

He already knew the answer, still he asked, “Why? Why do you seek my soul?”

“Why?” She ripped off one of her metal-studded leather gloves and slapped his face.

A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. “If I am to die, I would at the very least like to know the reason.”

She lifted her glove, as if to strike him again and paused. With one hand raised in the air and one red-tinged eyebrow higher than the other, she stared at him for a moment. “No.” She shook her head and lowered her hand. “No. You do not play with a simple girl, Faucon. You will not force me to forget my motives in a fit of rage.”

“Then answer my question.”

Calmly slipping the overlarge glove back onto her hand, she said nothing.

It mattered not. Rhys did not need to hear the words from her lips. Guillaume du Pree had no sisters, but he had been betrothed. The hatred written plainly on the face before him held the answer to his unasked question. Lyonesse of Ryonne had captured him.

The lady’s well-planned actions would likely end in his death. King Stephen and The Earl of York had been wrong in their assumption that none from Ryonne or du Pree’s holding would seek retribution for du Pree’s murder until the month was up.

Her continued silence filled him with sudden rage. Rhys sought words to reason with her.

“I did not murder your betrothed.”

“You lie, Faucon.”

“Waste no more time talking.” Sir John interrupted the debate. His menacing tone fit the evil scowl covering his face. “I will kill him now.”

Rhys’s attention shifted to John. Whatever held the knight in check thus far was quickly losing its tenuous hold. Every muscle in the man’s body was poised for battle. The air around him was thick with the scent of blood-lust.

“Nay, be patient a few moments longer.” Lyonesse placed a restraining hand on John’s wrist. “I want to remember this moment for the rest of my life.”

Thankfully, the man retained enough sense to listen. Rhys returned his focus to his captor. “I tell you for the last time, I did not kill du Pree.”

“Silence, Faucon. Save your lies for your maker. I’m certain in hell they are worth something.”

Fear was nothing new to any sane fighting man. Sometimes a healthy respect for fear could save your life. This would not be one of those times. Tendrils of both, fear and regret snaked through his veins.

Anger at the unjust accusation and rage at the coward’s death he now faced, gave him the strength to fight off the creeping tendrils. Certain that his own death was imminent, he asked, “What about my men?”

“They will not be harmed. They have been taken to safety.”

“Safety?”

“Aye, Lord Faucon, they are safe. However, it may take them a while to find their way free.”

The men surrounding them laughed.

He ignored their oddly placed humor and took a deep breath before asking, “And how do you plan to kill me?”

“You ran a sword through Guillaume’s back.” Sparks of fire shot from her eyes. “You will die the same way.”

She removed her gloves and ordered, “Get him up.”

John lifted his blade against Rhys’s chin, forcing his head up. He had no option but to follow the upward motion of the weapon. He silently cursed as two soldiers began to secure his arms behind his back with leather straps.

He would rather die fighting than be slaughtered like a trussed boar. “No!”

Mindless of the weapons aimed at his body, he violently jerked around, shoved past John and sprinted toward the safety of the forest.

“Stop him!”

His escape was short-lived. Five men flew at him, knocking him from his feet. Fists pummeled him about the head and body. The gash on his side tore even more from the blows. They shoved his face into the dirt, quickly securing his arms and legs. Then they hauled him to his feet and led him back to Lyonesse.

His heart pounded loud in his ears. Rhys shook with a helplessness he’d never before felt. He riveted his attention on the woman before him and shouted, “Get this over with.”

“In all due time, Faucon.”

Lyonesse savored the deliciously sweet taste of her victory. Certain the restraints would hold, she allowed her gaze to slowly roam up her captive’s massive form.

The stories had not been completely accurate. This man was not simply big. Like the fabled warriors of old, he was a huge dangerous giant. Gaps in the laced seams of the chain mail protecting his legs gave evidence to tightly corded muscles bulging toward freedom.

She admired the richness of his plain, black surcoat. Even hanging in torn disarray, the fabric bespoke of quality. Lyonesse knew that while the material would be as strong as the muscles it covered, beneath her fingers it would feel as soft and silky as a kitten’s fur.

Her attention trailed up the long, wooden scabbard hanging at his side. Soaring falcons were artfully carved into the sword’s case. The wide belt at his waist served not only to anchor the scabbard; it also did much to accentuate the outward flare of his chest.

Muscles strained violently below flesh in his silent struggle to break the bonds holding him. Lyonesse could see the fierce expansion of his chest and arms with each effort.

She glanced up and shuddered. If his strength were as great as the determination etched on his face, he would soon gain his freedom. His full lips narrowed into a grim line. A rapid pulse beat against one cheek. His swarthy complexion was broken by the cuts her glove had made on one side of his face. On the other side a thin white scar trickled like a tear from the corner of one eye to his mouth.

He leaned forward. For a brief moment unruly hair hid his face. Sunlight glistened off the shoulder-length mane. When he straightened, one raven lock fell across his face. Lyonesse’s fingers itched to smooth the wayward strands back into place.

She peered into his eyes and was horrified to find Faucon watching her perusal. Flecks of gold sparkled against his light brown orbs. The shimmering brightness flared and paled with a life of their own.

“Look your fill, milady,” he taunted. “For I will be the one who haunts your nightmares. You will wish you’d never beheld me.”

She quickly turned away to hide the rush of embarrassment that heated her face. Lyonesse gritted her teeth. What evilness possessed her to so intently study this vile beast? After collecting her wits, she turned back to him. “Those are bold words for one trussed like a gutted stag.”

The black brows of the captive winged higher over his amazing eyes. It would be far too easy for a person to fall helpless under that striking glare.

To her amazement, he only laughed at her. The desperate tone of his laughter sent a ripple of guilt down her spine. She studied her captive and frowned. Behind the fierce anger that brightened his eyes lay something akin to…pain.

She’d seen that expression staring back at her from the polished surface of her mirror. Pain. Loss. They already haunted her nightmares.

What did Faucon know of pain? Or of loss? This man doled out death and destruction as a pastime. He gave no thought to the lives his actions touched, or ruined in the process. Nay, even though she could not name the emotion, she knew it was not pain flickering in his gaze.

Even if the demon did possess a tiny bit of remorse in his black-hearted soul, what did it matter to her? Nothing would change. Guillaume would still lie dead. How would she find a husband within the time left to her? For without a husband, King Stephen would take Taniere.

The sound of wooden wagon wheels clattering over the hard, rutted path interrupted her disturbing thoughts. A few more of the men arrived to dispose of Faucon’s body, but John’s loud curse unsettled her even more.

Suddenly losing control, Guillaume’s man lunged toward her captive, intent on running his sword through the man.

“Nay! He is mine.” No one else must finish the deed. Only her. As Lyonesse threw herself at John she knocked him off his feet and seized his sword.

She grasped the weapon with both hands and turned toward Faucon. Stiffening her spine, steeling herself for what she was about to do, Lyonesse walked toward him. She picked a spot on his chest as her target.

“Damn you, look at me.” She did as he bid. “If you are bold enough to take my life have the courage to watch me die.”

Honor and bravery—the ideals her father lived by, the qualities she strove for in herself, shimmered in his unflinching stare.

Horror stopped her. What was she about to do? This would not be revenge.

Her stomach rolled. This would be murder.

The sword wavered. His stare bore into her. He would accept death. Unlike a coward, he would not plead for his life. The sword wobbled and fell from her hand.

Lyonesse shook herself from her trance and stared at Faucon.

He returned her steady look. “You are making a grave mistake, milady.”

She made her decision. “Get him in the wagon,” she shouted at her men.

Faucon struggled uselessly against the men who nearly carried him to the waiting hay wagon. His threats and curses fell heavy on her ears.

Not wishing to listen to his tirade during the trip back to Taniere, Lyonesse leaned over the side of the wagon and ordered, “Cease, Faucon.”

“You will pay for this. All of you.” Faucon glared at the men. “Do you take your orders from a mere slip of a girl? The king will hunt each and every one of you down.”

His empty threats infuriated her. “Faucon, I warned you once. Cease. Else I will find a way to silence you.”

He answered with a menacing snarl. “You puling little cub, do you realize what you are getting yourself into? The day will come when you regret this action.”

“I know exactly what I am about. I’ll not regret anything.” Grabbing a dirty, rumpled cloth from the cart, she rolled it into a ball. “Maybe this will stop your threats.”

The cloth stuffed in his mouth cut off Faucon’s blistering curses. Lyonesse backed away from the hate and anger glowing from his eyes. No words were needed to understand his silent promise of sinister retribution for her act.

Had her need for revenge not been so strong, Lyonesse knew she would have disgraced herself. Had she loved Guillaume less, it would be easy to order Faucon’s release and ride away. But the loss of her love hardened her heart.

Quickly mounting her horse, she left the others behind and headed toward home. Left to only her thoughts and the eerie cry of a soaring bird of prey, Lyonesse muttered aloud to the empty air. “Faucon must pay for his treachery. I have witnesses to provide proof of his guilt.”

Guillaume’s own men had brought the cold, disfigured body of their lord back to Taniere keep. They described the butcher who had ended du Pree’s life.

Even more telling than their description of the murderer was the last detail Guillaume’s men had told her. The eyes beneath the dark nasal helm glowed a riveting gold. Like the raptor he was named for, his eyes pierced their quarry just before the kill.

Aye, Faucon had mutilated the gentle Guillaume beyond recognition. Of that, there was no doubt. It mattered little if all of Faucon’s forces arrived at her gates. Let them come. They would soon learn that their name alone would not always protect them from retribution for their sins.

The thick, gray walls of her keep were a welcome sight. Lyonesse cantered ahead, her hail of “Taniere!” brought instant reaction from the men in the twin gate towers. The drawbridge slowly lowered and the iron portcullis raised, giving entrance to the outer yard.

She rode past the inner gates and into the second bailey, then slid off the lathered horse. After handing the reins to a waiting stable lad, she paused only long enough to give the unneeded order, “See that he is well cared for, Simon.” Lyonesse headed up the steep steps leading into the great hall.

She paused briefly to learn from her maid Helen that a missive from du Pree’s holy man had arrived before reaching the welcoming silence of her private chamber. She hastily stripped the heavy armor from her sweat-soaked body. “Sweet Mary, how can they wear this?” A sigh escaped her lips as she peeled the thickly padded under-shirt away from her hot flesh.

Relieved of the old, leather-hardened armor and protective underpadding, she snatched the rolled parchment from her bed before dropping down on the mattress.

Quickly sliding her fingernail beneath the wax seal, Lyonesse unrolled the missive and scanned its contents.

She couldn’t hold back the laugh building in her chest. For the first time in months, she experienced a measure of relief and satisfaction. The Good Lord had heard her prayers.

Lyonesse stood just inside the tower cell. Even chained to a bed and sleeping, Faucon looked formidable. Was he indeed a spawn of Satan? Did he take pleasure from fighting and killing?

The many scars marking his body attested to his prowess. To have withstood so many injuries and survived gave credence to his strength and cunning. Was he a champion to be lauded, or a devil to be feared? Bravery or sorcery?

Either way, he was still a murderer.

A living and breathing murderer.

Lyonesse frowned. She’d not expected this predicament. When she and John planned this revenge, there’d been no talk of what to do when Faucon was brought to Taniere. The only lengthy discussion was where to bury the body.

The body she’d not so carefully tended a short time ago. It had taken three men to hold Faucon while she poured Helen’s sleeping draught down his throat. Gentleness had not been on her mind while she’d cleaned and stitched the gash in his side and seen to the bruises and cuts on his face and neck.

“Milady, do you require help?” Howard called out as he entered the small tower chamber that served as Faucon’s cell.

“No, Howard, all is well.”

The way her captain dogged her every step around Faucon was almost laughable. In less than one day, the keep’s active grapevine had already begun to grow. Too many people already knew she was using this tower chamber as a cell—and they knew who she held prisoner.

Little more than a fortnight past, Lyonesse had left her father’s keep at Ryonne in a hurry. She’d wanted to leave before he returned from the king’s service and could stop her. Since she’d not had time to find her own work force at Taniere, many of his servants were in attendance. She’d not risk killing Faucon with so many of Ryonne’s people about. Tongues would wag. Regardless of her reasoning, her father would not take kindly to her form of vengeance.

She could bide her time. After all, she’d captured the mighty Faucon, had she not?

Howard cleared his throat. “Milady, do nothing rash.”

Lyonesse turned to face him. She opened her mouth and then quickly bit back the stinging reply so ready to fall from her lips. Howard’s worried expression twisted her stomach with guilt. “Howard, upon my honor, I will not kill this man today.”

He peered down and studied her face for a moment before warning, “Keep an eye out for Sir John. I do not think he will give up quite as easily.”

Why Howard did not trust Guillaume’s man was something Lyonesse would never understand.

Howard nodded toward the bed and asked, “Will he die of his wounds?”

“Nay. His wounds were minor. ’Tis Helen’s concoction that keeps him asleep.” When concern etched even deeper lines in Howard’s face, Lyonesse pushed him to the door. “Go. Faucon will suffer nothing more severe than an aching head.”

She waited until the captain left before returning to the bedside to check on her rather shabby handiwork. Sadly, she was not always the most careful seamstress and wanted to make certain the stitches held.

Lyonesse knelt on the floor and pushed the covers from his side. Faucon shifted in his sleep, dragging the cover off his chest.

She paused, her hand in midair as she’d reached to check his wound. Her face flushed hot. A tingle ran down her neck and across her chest filling her breasts and intensifying the heat on her cheeks.

Lyonesse had tended many injuries for her father and his men. A man’s body was no mystery to her. She’d lost her curiosity many years ago. Why did seeing just this man’s chest cause such fluttering of her heart?

He was her enemy. He’d taken away her future. He’d killed her love. She’d prayed for his death many times over. She’d wished to see his broken body lying at her feet.

She bit her lip. Her heart did not cease its rapid pounding. The heat on her cheeks did not lessen.

She shook her head and steadied her trembling hand. She was tired, that was all. The excitement from capturing this man had been too much. She needed rest. Nothing more. Lyonesse pulled the salve-filled covering from his side.

His hand shot out like a snake and grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?”

The chain securing him to the wall gave little warning. If she’d not already been kneeling on the floor, she’d have fallen. How long had he been awake? She pried at his fingers. “Release me.”

His grip tightened. “What are you doing?”

Lyonesse smiled into his gold-flecked gaze. “I thought I would take out these stitches and see how long it takes a devil to bleed to death.”

He returned her steady stare for a long moment before releasing her. “By all means, proceed.”

His response surprised her. “You would just lie there?”

Faucon raised an arm. The metal links permitted him limited movement. “What could I do to stop you?”

She knew better. This was not a man who would simply accept death while lying flat on his back. “How long have you been awake?”

His laugh was weak. “Long enough.”

Her heart sank. She’d have no luck filling him with worry. He’d most likely heard her vow to Howard. Determined to complete her chore and quit the chamber, she asked, “May I finish here?”

Faucon closed his eyes, tensed his jaw, and nodded.

Lyonesse studied him for a heartbeat. “Does it hurt that much?”

“Only when you poke and prod at it.”

How long had he been awake? Suddenly, she didn’t wish to know. Quickly, after checking the stitches, she smoothed on more salve. Her fingers shook at the contact with his flesh. The skin covering his frame was smooth to her touch. The muscles beneath were tight and well developed. Lyonesse bit her bottom lip, forcing her errant thoughts back to the task at hand. She not-so-gently slapped the covering back over the wound and pulled the blankets up over his body.

She rose and headed toward the door. “I will send up a maid with something to drink.”

“Food, perhaps? Unless you want me to starve to death.”

She paused. “’Tis a thought.”

His laugh rumbled across her ears. “That might please you, but your Howard would not be happy.”

Lyonesse sighed. He’d heard the vow to Howard. “Faucon, you may be alive at this moment, but do not be so certain I will not yet gain my revenge.” She smiled. “I had you at the pointed end of a sword once. I can do it again if need be.”

“Maybe so, but I’ll be ready for you and it will not be quite as easy.”

Lyonesse’s blood rushed through her veins. She wanted to rip the smirk from his face. “You think you are so invincible. You survive every battle. Do you think that will last forever? You are nothing but a man, Faucon. A man who can, and someday will, die.”

His smile widened. “And you are but a woman. A woman like any other.” His eyes seemed to glow from across the room. “Tell me, Lady Lyonesse, which scar did you admire the most? The one on my thigh, or one of those on my chest?”

Anger and embarrassment ripped a scream of rage from her throat. Not only had the swine heard her vow to Howard, he’d been awake the whole time.

Before charging out the door, she yelled, “Go to the devil, Faucon.”

Rhys laughed. Lord Baldwin of Ryonne had chosen well by naming his daughter after his wife’s father. This cunning she-cub was worthy of being called Lyonesse. Too bad she’d not inherited her father’s even temper. For all her bravado and trickery, the Lady Lyonesse angered too easily. Her emotional displays would not serve her well. But it would provide him with some amusement while he was here.

Since she’d not killed him in the forest, he had a bad feeling that he might be here a long time. If that happened, he’d end up dying at King Stephen’s orders without ever discovering the true murderer.

Rhys jerked his arm, grimacing at the bite of the iron manacle holding him to the bed.

Surely they didn’t mean to keep him chained to this bed forever? They knew who he was, so they’d heard the stories about Lord Faucon.

His bitter sigh filled the chamber. How could anyone not have heard the tales? Rhys purposely let the rumors of his terrible disposition grow and spread. Secretly he enjoyed the fear that sprang to men’s eyes when they realized whom they faced. It suited him to build upon this dark image by dressing himself, his horse and his men in nothing but black.

Those who knew him well found the stories of his evilness amusing, even assisting Rhys in building the fables beyond the believable. He had to admit, it effectively kept the unwanted daughters of his peers from being dangled beneath his nose.

In truth, he’d not needed stories to keep women away. Word of Alyce’s death had sufficed. That suited him well. He’d no wish to avail himself of another woman’s lies and deceit.

Again, what he’d thought was a long-buried pain, stabbed at his heart. “Blast it all.” The curse echoed in his ears. He glanced out the arrow slit. The sun was already setting.

How much time would pass before his men found their way to his captain Melwyn? They’d broken the men up into two groups. Melwyn’s group headed toward Faucon’s keep, seeking aid from his brother Gareth. The other group rode with him, toward Richmond. The most logical area to begin his search had seemed the site where the rumors about the murder were circulating. Instead, they’d ridden into a trap.

A cleverly devised trap. Since du Pree’s lands and Ryonne were to the south, he’d not expected to encounter vengeance on the north road.

Where was he? He knew what general area. His foolish captors had taken no pains to hide their direction. The cart had followed the north road before turning slightly east toward the coast. That would put him in either the Earl of York’s, or the Earl of Richmond’s territory. Since both men were considered friends, he was in a safe region.

Yet they were close to the Scottish border. All were aware that the Lord of Faucon was a staunch supporter of King Stephen in his battle against the Empress for the throne. No matter what had taken place during King Henry’s reign, the Empress had no right to the crown.

Rhys refused to believe for an instant that Baldwin’s daughter would be loyal to the enemy. So where had Lady Lyonesse taken him? He closed his eyes, recalling snippets of court gossip. Had he heard anything about Ryonne, Lyonesse or du Pree? Other than about the upcoming marriage ceremony, he didn’t recall—wait! Rhys sat up. Yes, he did recall something…from last summer. What?

He smiled with relief. Taniere. How could he have forgotten the uproar when old Leon had handed his prized possession to his granddaughter?

His smile died. Knowing where he was did little to help him. His only hope was his men.

They were all to meet outside of Northampton next week. If his men could not find him, would either of his brothers be able to prevent the loss of all they held dear?

How did he let this happen? The ridiculousness of the situation wiped away his anger and worry. Unable to contain himself, he started to laugh.

Once started, his deep, throaty laugher was nearly impossible to stop. He did not care if the sound echoed out of the chamber and down to the hall.

“A female. The terrible Faucon has had his wings clipped by a female.”

All his years of hard work to build a reputation wasted. Wiped out by the small hand of a grief-stricken female. He shook his head. “Not even a woman fully grown, but by an untried girl.”

When he reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes, Rhys flinched at the bite of his chains. The flash of pain didn’t stop the laughter from erupting again.

Lyonesse. Aye, she was well named. His shoulders trembled with mirth. In his mind a green-eyed kitten pounced on an unsuspecting falcon and shook the bird of prey between its small, white, sharp teeth.

Chapter Two

An early evening breeze brushed lightly across Lyonesse’s cheek. The gentle current carried a fine, cool mist from the sea it just crossed, causing her to pull the woolen mantle more closely around her to ward off the chill. Her perch in the crenellation of the stone wall may have shielded her from a person’s view, but it provided little shelter from the seeking wind.

She’d had two days to think. Two long days to figure out what to do with Faucon until his time ran out.

So far she’d come up with little else besides holding him in her tower. He’d only laughed at her with a deep, sinister laugh that sent shivers down her spine. He didn’t realize that she knew about the king’s command. Faucon had one short month to prove his innocence, or die. If she could hold him long enough, his death would not be on her hands.

Faucon would have to be content with being held captive—for a time. She’d ordered the chains securing him to the bed removed, making his lot slightly better. A thick, iron-studded door with a locking bar on the outside, secured him within his tower cell.

“The murdering scum be dead?”

Lyonesse jumped at the intrusion. “No.” Intent on her thoughts, she gave Sir John little more than a glance.

He grasped her shoulder. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

She jerked away from his unwelcome touch, reluctantly climbing down from the wall. “No, Faucon is not dead.”

“’Tis not what we planned.” Anger tinged his words. “Milord du Pree will not wait forever for his revenge.”

Lyonesse lifted an eyebrow at his impatience. “What does a day or two matter to one who is dead?”

Sir John loomed over her, his lips curled into a snarl. “Lord Guillaume trusted you. Like a besotted fool he was ready to give you everything.” He spat on the wooden planks of the wallwalk. “You dishonor him with your hesitation.”

“I dishonor no one.” She swallowed her fear of the man and stared up at him. “Faucon will pay for what he did.”

“When? You have had time aplenty to finish the deed.”

Howard’s dire warnings about trusting Sir John rang in her mind. No. She would not tell him her plans.

“What would you like me to do, Sir John? Run a sword through him with Ryonne’s captain at hand?”

Sir John’s smile sent a tremor down her spine. “I can see to your captain easily enough.”

“You will not endanger Howard.”

The man stepped away. “If the deed is not done by this time tomorrow, I will see to it myself.”

“Give me no ultimatums. I will deal with Faucon.”

Lyonesse gasped when he grabbed her arm. “Unhand me.”

He tightened his hold. “The time for games is over. I came to you to fulfill my lord’s final wish and I will see it done. No one will stop me. I will kill any who get in my way. It will give me great pleasure when Sir Howard seeks to interfere.” Releasing her, he started to turn away, stopping long enough to add, “Until this time tomorrow, Lady Lyonesse.”

She watched his retreat and wondered why she had ever trusted him. ’Twas simple—because she’d been too distraught to think straight. Grief had made her more than eager to seek revenge on Guillaume’s murderer.

And now she’d made Sir John an enemy. An enemy who threatened to kill Howard.

Sir John left her no choice. She would have to set aside her new plans of letting King Stephen deal with Faucon and fulfill the old ones.

She still thirsted for his blood, but would she be able to take his life? Is that what Guillaume would have wanted?

She turned back to the wall, watching the flurry of nighttime activities in the outer bailey. Fires for cooking and warmth glowed from the doorway of each cottage and hut. The smells of food being prepared set her stomach rolling.

The calls and laughter of those gathering their tools and closing their shops for the day made her smile wistfully. They were going home to wives, husbands and children. Their lives might be poor and humble compared to hers, but they had someone to go home to, someplace to call home.

While she had nothing and no one. Nay, her chance at having someplace to consider her own was lost. She closed her eyes tightly against the tears. Her chance at having a happy, fulfilling life had been taken from her.

Lyonesse turned and glared across Taniere’s inner courtyard. Her heated stare swept across the muddy practice yard, past the stables and mews to fly up the earthen motte that supported the high walls of the keep. Aye, lost because the monster locked inside the tower knew not the meaning of honor.

He’d killed Guillaume as if the man had been nothing but a mere foot soldier, instead of heir to a title and great wealth. It would have been of more benefit to take Guillaume for ransom, than killing him in such a cowardly fashion. No sane man would have mutilated Guillaume beyond recognition. Only someone of the devil’s ilk could have committed such a deed. Someone like Faucon. What savagery lurked in the soul of the man she’d imprisoned? Perhaps he had no soul.

Perhaps killing him would not be a sin.

She crossed her arms tightly across her stomach. Every time she thought of Guillaume’s death, bile rose to choke her. Pain, as sharp as that from a thrusted sword, pierced her temples.

She would never get used to not having Guillaume about. He had paged at Ryonne. Under her father’s tutelage he had grown into manhood. Once he’d become an adult, he had a man’s responsibilities. While many of his duties took him away from Ryonne for long periods, he’d never been away from her heart.

Anger thickened her blood. Renewed rage fired her resolve. Aye, she still desired revenge. From between clenched teeth, Lyonesse vowed, “Misbegotten spawn of Satan, you will pay dearly for what you have done.”

A cool gust of wind made her shiver. Determined to end her growing nightmares this very night, Lyonesse pulled her cloak closer about her and marched toward the keep.

The skin on the back of her neck prickled, making her stop in midstep. Someone or something was watching her. Watching her like a predator stalking its prey.

From the shelter of the forest he watched, biding his time. Faucon still lived. His minion’s announcement hadn’t been needed. He’d felt it in his heart. The gut-wrenching taunts rustled in the leaves—he lives, he lives.

Glaring across the open expanse of land separating Taniere’s walls from the dense forest, he lifted his gaze to the keep. The beast had killed the most important person in the world, and her son. For that Faucon would pay.

For now Faucon drew breath—safely locked in one of the towers. But soon—very soon the devil’s heart would cease beating and his breath would come no more.

When Faucon lost his life only one person would be held to blame. Lyonesse.

For five years he’d planned Faucon’s death. The time had stretched like an eternity before him. An endless, lonely eternity. Lyonesse made a grave error by taking the murderer captive instead of dispatching him to his master. For that she would suffer the pangs of hell.

Rhys stared through the arrow slit and watched the sun sink from view. His heart fell in unison with the light of this remarkably strange day.

He cursed his forced inactivity. The idle solitude permitted unbidden images to form in his mind. Memories that he had not previously allowed to disturb, or interrupt his life, now threatened to overwhelm him.

The rushing thoughts were so vivid he could hear and see them. Shapeless thoughts from years past transformed into actions of now. Rhys groaned at the sound of a newborn baby’s cry. His groans turned to a strangled gasp of horror when the screams of a dying infant and mother invaded his senses.

A sword cutting through his flesh would not be as painful as the piercing wails that rang relentlessly in his own mind. He could hear her accusations and her laughter.

She’d taken a naive, eager boy to husband and had effortlessly crushed his hopes and dreams with her vileness.

“By the Rood, cease.” His growl bounced off the bare walls of the empty cell.

He jumped to his feet and paced the small confines of his tower jail. The act did little to comfort him. Nor did it provide the action his body desperately needed to quell the unwelcome memories.

The arrow slit silently beckoned to him. Drawn to teasing thoughts of freedom, Rhys paused before the narrow opening and gazed down at the baileys and walls below.

He watched two lone figures on the closer wall. Unable to hear their words, he could only assess their moods by the posturing of their bodies. The quick motions of his captor expressed her agitation and impatience. While the tense, stiff movements of the man conveyed tightly leashed anger.

They took turns glancing up at this tower while continuing their animated discussion. Obviously, he was the topic of their argument. With a dismissive shrug, Rhys let his attention wander. He looked beyond the outer wall.

A large expanse of cleared land lay between the keep and the woods. No force of men would be able to approach the keep unseen. Not even his own.

The outer bailey of the keep drew his attention. Fires burned inside the thatched huts. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d enjoyed the contentment of hearth and home.

The lingering warmth and joy shared at his parents’ hearth had once made him long for a wife and children of his own. A bitter marriage and too many deaths had driven that childish longing to an early grave.

He rested his forehead against the damp stone wall. What unholy saint drew those thoughts from the bowels of hell?

A key grated in the lock of the tower door, drawing him away from the arrow slit and away from his building gloom.

A young page carried a wooden tray laden with food and set the tray on the floor before turning to Rhys.

The boy looked up at him and asked, “You are the devil Faucon?”

Rhys smiled at the child’s boldness. Only by keeping his voice low was he able to contain his laughter. “Aye, ’tis what some call me.”

The lad squinted. “Why do you not look like a demon?”

Rhys crossed his arms against his chest, then looked down his nose at the imp. “What should a demon look like?”

An innocent knowledge of devils rushed from the child’s mouth. “You should have horns and a tail. How do you wear boots over hoofed feet?” He paused to point down at the tray. “A true demon would not eat this food. It is already dead.”

Rhys kicked his foot toward the tray, forced a growl to his voice and asked, “How do you know I will not eat you instead of this rubbish?” He took a step closer to the boy. “Should you not run for your life?”

The child drew his small shoulders back, held his ground and tilted his head up a little farther. He pointed at Rhys, insisting, “A true demon would not have been captured by—”

“Michael!”

The accusation was cut short by a shout from beyond the door. Michael instantly scampered out of the room.

Lyonesse stood in the doorway. “That child is innocent.” She glowered at him and ordered, “You will leave him be.”

Rhys’s mouth twitched with sorely suppressed humor. He lifted one shoulder briefly. “A child is a delicacy that I have not tasted in many weeks.”

Lyonesse paused. Not one muscle in her tense face moved. Then a look of uncertainty settled on her face.

Rhys provoked the confusion even further. He assumed an air of nonchalance, bargaining, “If you will turn a blind eye to my ungodly appetites I will promise to stifle the child’s screams.” He picked at an imaginary speck of dirt beneath a fingernail and waited for her.

“Have you not yet killed enough innocent people to satisfy your taste for flesh and blood?”

“By all the Saints’ bones!” Had the woman no sense of humor? “I was but jesting.”

She stepped into the chamber, the hem of her overlong mantle trailing across the floor behind her. “Your humor is ill-received here, Faucon. I found nothing humorous in committing Guillaume to his grave.”

“No, you probably did not.”

“’Tis all you have to say?” She closed the door behind her, shutting out the guards. “No apology for the havoc you have brought to my life? No regret for killing an innocent man?”

Every fiber of his being warned him of danger. “I have never taken an innocent life.”

She smiled. “You lie so well.”

The warning grew stronger. Rhys narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

She unclasped the brooch of her hooded mantle, letting it fall to the floor. Rhys’s mouth went dry. Her hair, worn loose, cascaded over her shoulders and down her bare arms. Pale, silken flesh mounded gently above the deep-cut neck of her sleeveless overgown. The bliaut hugged her body like a second skin. She wore no chainse beneath—nothing but flesh showed through the tightly laced openings on either side.

The soft, thin fabric of her gown clung to her legs as she approached. Long, shapely legs carried her almost silently across the floor.

He did his best to breathe. Rhys willed his riotous heart to cease its wild thudding inside his chest. The erratic rhythm made it nearly impossible to think.

“Why, Faucon.” Her whispered words floated like a spring breeze. “I want the same thing that I have always wanted.”

The sweet scent of roses and spice acted like strong ale to his senses. He looked down at her. When had she moved so close? He resisted the strong urge to reach out and draw her against his chest. “And what might that be?”

Lyonesse looked up at him. Light from the wall torches twinkled like stars in her eyes. She smiled and he felt his heart turn over itself.

He focused on her mouth. So near. So ready to be kissed. She trailed the tip of her tongue across her lips and he leaned forward, willing to do the task for her.

“All I want, Faucon, is you.” The sharp, cold point of a dagger pressed against his chest accentuated her words.

Chapter Three

Lyonesse would always treasure the look of surprise and anger that crossed Faucon’s face the moments before his death. It would sustain her in the long, lonely years ahead.

When he reached up to grab her wrist, she sank the blade through the top layer of his skin. He stopped instantly and lowered his arm.

“Faucon, how could you think I wanted anything but your life?”

His dark gaze bore into hers. “Considering what a base clod I have obviously become, I bid you hurry.”

She was surprised by how calm his words sounded. Would he really accept death so easily? “It has taken me months to achieve this moment. Let me savor it a little longer.”

“Oh, by all means, please do enjoy yourself.”

“Always the sarcastic retort? Tell me, Faucon, do you take anything seriously?”

His eyes burned. Golden specks flickered into being. “I take living and dying very seriously.”

Suddenly her mouth went dry. “You may take your own living and dying seriously. What about others?”

“It depends.”

His voice, deep and gravelly, whispered across her ears. She found it difficult to concentrate in the warm chamber. She needed to end this quickly. Now. Before losing her will to see it through.

No longer was waiting for his time to run out an option. She’d come this far—debased herself to catch him off guard. To her amazement and satisfaction it had worked.

Keeping her gaze locked on his, she took a deep breath and in the split second before completing her deed, she wondered if there would be much blood. With all the force she could muster, Lyonesse gripped the dagger, prepared to ram the lethal blade into his heart.

Like a hawk snatching its prey in midair, Faucon caught her wrist in a viselike grasp. “You have two choices, Lyonesse. Either end this now, or submit.”

She stared at the hand gripping hers. The muscles and veins in his hands strained against confining flesh. Blood ran down the front of his tunic. She saw her entire life, her future ebb away as easily as his blood. Swallowing the bile caught in her throat, she looked back up at him. “You have to die. If I don’t do it, Sir John will and he’ll kill all who stand in his way.”

“Fine.” His grip tightened over hers as he forced the point of the dagger deeper into his chest.

Dear Lord, she couldn’t do this. She’d tried. Twice now. And failed. In a whisper, she pleaded, “Guillaume, forgive me.”

Faucon whispered back. “You will never let him forgive you.” Pushing the lethal weapon another hair closer to his heart, he beckoned, “Come, Lyonesse, this is what you want. I am helping you all I can.”

“Stop!” She pushed frantically against his chest with her free hand. “Oh, stop, please. I cannot.”

Entwining his fingers through her hair, he grabbed the back of her neck, stopping her attempt at escape. “I thought this is what you wanted.”

“I do.”

“Look at my chest, Lyonesse. Can you not see my blood run? Does it not give you a taste for more? You are almost there. Why stop now when you are so close?”

She glanced past the blood and stared at him. “I am not like you. I could never kill in cold blood.”

He laughed. “You are more like me than you will ever know.”

“No.” Lyonesse shook her head. “I could never do the devil’s work.”

“Then why do you come to this chamber dressed like a temptress and close out the guards? Who gave you the idea of distracting me with your body, so that you could plant a dagger in my heart? If you think those thoughts came from God you need to think again, Lyonesse.”

She would burn in hell for her actions this day. “You do not understand. If you do not die, Sir John has vowed to see it through. Howard will seek to stop him and when he does…” She couldn’t complete the horrifying truth.

“Do you place such little trust in your captain?”

Lyonesse shook her head. “I would trust him with my life.”

“But not his own.”

She gasped. “I could not bear him to die for my mistake.”

“Then correct your mistake now. Kill me. See it through.”

Her knees buckled. Faucon winced, but pulled her upright. “Damn you, Lyonesse. Get it over with.”

Her breath caught on a choked cry. “I cannot.”

“Then I will end this myself.”

Jerking the tip of the dagger out of his chest, he shook her wrist and the weapon clattered to the floor. Faucon pulled her to him. “I gave you two choices, Lyonesse. The first was to kill me.”

His lips grazed hers. “The second was to submit.”

The warmth of his blood seeped through her thin gown. The heat of his lips tore through her veins. This was insane. Yet that knowledge did nothing to prevent her from leaning even closer against him.

Coaxing her lips to part, he swept his tongue across hers and the fire shot all the way to her toes. Heat and ice both rushed through her at the same time. It left her dizzy, breathless and wanting more.

Faucon released her wrist and wrapped his arm around her. “You were a fool to come here alone.” His hot breath grazed her ear. “What made you think you would succeed?”

Before she could answer, his lips closed over hers. The half-formed response fled her mind.

He stroked her side, his fingertips barely brushing her flesh. Lyonesse shivered from the unexpected contact.

No man had ever touched her like this—igniting fires with a gentle stroke. Not even Guillaume had kissed her in this manner—turning her legs to water and causing her heart to beat so rapidly. Never had she imagined the feelings running through her now. Faucon was just a man and she’d been certain of his reaction upon seeing her indecent clothing. Yet she had not expected him to touch her—or to kiss her.

She’d not expected to become the prey.

He traced across her chin and up to her ear with his lips and tongue. She could no more stop the tremors rushing down her spine than she could stop the moon from rising at night.

Faucon cupped her breast and ran his thumb across her already swollen nipple. “Ah, Lyonesse.” His whispered words against her ear drew a moan from her. His lips against her neck caused her to gasp for breath. He chuckled softly against her skin. “The next time you seek to kill me, do not get within my arm’s reach.”

Threading his fingers tighter in her hair, he pulled her head back.

Lyonesse stared into his eyes. The golden flecks shimmered with life. The fire in her veins cooled instantly. What had she done?

His brows rose and a smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Next time, Lyonesse, I will do much more than just kiss you. I will make you mine.”

She bit her lip as the heat of embarrassment rushed up her face. Pushing against his chest, she swore, “Next time, Faucon, perhaps I will see you dead.”

He laughed at her idle threat. “There won’t be a next time, my love.”

“Do not call me that!” Her gown stuck to the already drying blood on his chest as she pulled away.

Faucon looked down and pried at the cloth, freeing them from each other. “I would appreciate it, if you would summon Howard.”

She backed away and turned to retrieve her mantle from the floor, just as the door to the chamber banged against the wall.

“Again you could not honor Milord Guillaume’s wishes.” Sir John stood in the doorway. His sword already drawn, he started for Faucon. “I told you I would see to it myself.”

Lyonesse grabbed at his arm, but he jerked away from her. “Nay. Do not.”

Sir John paused and looked at her. “Do not?” Narrowing his eyes, he let his gaze travel slowly down her body. His rage, when he returned his stare to her face, was almost tangible. “I see that even you have fallen under this blackguard’s spell.”

Pulling her mantle around her, Lyonesse returned his stare. “Nay. But I will not have him killed. We will let the king deal with Faucon.”

Rhys looked from one to the other. Who was his biggest enemy? Sir John with a heart of hate and a ready sword? Or Lyonesse with a heart of deceit and tongue filled with lies? He’d rather face the sword. At least with Sir John he knew when and where the attack would come. But his unexplained lust for Lyonesse would cloud her approach.

He studied the opponents as they confronted each other. No, his lust was not unexplained. Here was a woman who would fight for what she wanted. A woman who would follow her own form of honor—even if it was a bit misguided. A woman who could contain her fear.

This was a woman who could touch his soul. The thought excited him and terrified him at the same time.

Her last words registered in his mind. “You will permit the king to deal with me?”

Without shifting her gaze from Sir John, Lyonesse replied, “’Tis what I said.”

And he’d just thought her honorable. “Are there any other games you wish to play with my life?”

“What is wrong, Faucon? Do you not like a taste of your own treatment?”

With a curse, Sir John shoved Lyonesse toward the door. Then he turned and brandished his sword toward Rhys’s chest. “Sparring with words is not the way to deal with this murdering scum.”

Quickly glancing about the cell, Rhys spied the dagger. Before he could get his hands on the weapon, Howard and five of Taniere’s men rushed the chamber.

“Hold!” Howard’s shout caught Sir John unaware. After disarming the man, Howard handed him over to the guards. “Sir John and his men will leave this keep tonight. From this moment forward they are to be considered enemies of Taniere and Ryonne.”

He paused a moment and when Lyonesse offered no argument, he continued, “If you naysay me on this, milady, I will lock you in your chamber and summon your father from Ryonne.”

Lyonesse bowed her head and sought to pull her mantle more tightly around her, but Howard saw the bloodstains on the front of her gown before she could hide them. Grasping her arm, the captain exclaimed, “You are injured. What has happened here?”

Pulling away, she reassured him, “I am fine.”

Howard glanced at Rhys, back to Lyonesse and finally chose Rhys. “What have you done?”

Rhys shook his head. “Me? Nothing.”

“Milady Lyonesse?”

“I said I am fine, Howard. Leave it be.”

“Then how did you come to be covered with blood? If you are uninjured, then I assume it is Faucon’s.”

“An accident.”

Rhys wanted to laugh at the pair. Where had Taniere’s vicious kitten gone?

“Lady Lyonesse, I told you to stay away from this cell. Why did you come here alone? Who dismissed the guards?”

Straightening her spine, Lyonesse glared at the captain. “I dismissed the guards. They are, after all, my guards.”

Much better. Rhys was pleased to see her return to normal. Since the two of them were obviously distracted, he took the opportunity to snatch the dagger from the floor.

Howard did not seem the least impressed with Lyonesse’s demeanor. “Did Faucon’s blood just suddenly run from his chest unaided?”

She lifted her chin a notch and lifted one tawny eyebrow. “Perhaps.”

Rhys took a step forward. If he could get his hands on Lyonesse, maybe he could use her and the dagger to escape. “No, my blood was quite content in my body before she entered this cell.”

She pointed at Rhys. “But he—”

“Cease!” Howard cut off her reply. “I have heard enough. I still insist that you do not have enough proof to know if Faucon murdered Guillaume or not. Call an end to this, Lyonesse. Send out a ransom note and be done with it.”

Even though a ransom would be an accepted action, Rhys would not stand for that plan. It was unacceptable to him. “It would be better if you would just let her kill me now than wait for ransom.”

Howard scratched his chin in confusion. “And why is that? It makes little sense.”

Rhys pointed at Lyonesse. “Ask her.”

She leaned against the rough-hewn door frame and smiled.

Howard rolled his eyes to the ceiling before focusing his attention on her. “What have you done now, milady?”

“Did you know that if Faucon cannot locate someone to take the blame for killing Guillaume that he will be forced to prove his innocence in a trial by combat?”

The captain looked to Rhys for confirmation. “Yes, she is correct, but she left out one important detail.”

Her smile grew. “Oh, silly me. Yes. He only had a month to accomplish his task.” She paused and shrugged one shoulder. “I will not release him in time.”

Gripping the dagger he still held behind his back, Rhys quelled his temper. “I know you hate me. I seek not to change that. But what has my family done to make you hate them so?”

She frowned. “Nothing.”

“If you follow through with this plan, you will be taking everything away from them.”

“I thought you did not fear death, Faucon? I thought none could beat you in battle? What trick do you now play?”

Rhys laughed bitterly and then looked at Howard. “I play no trick. This trial by combat will be a farce. Guillaume du Pree’s holy man will arrange the combat, ensuring that success will be his.”

“Surely you see the folly in this course of action?” Howard pleaded with Lyonesse. “Milady, please, you cannot permit this to happen.”

Rage contorted her face. She stepped away from the door. “Permit it to happen? What do I care if his family loses everything? What about me? What about all I have lost already and stand to lose in a few short weeks myself? Where has your loyalty gone, Sir Howard?” Her voice rose with each question. “What do you care that we will be forced to leave Taniere? You will simply assume your duty under my father’s command. I will be left with nothing and Taniere will no longer be in my family’s possession.”

Racing by a stunned Howard, she yelled, “I will not permit that to happen.”

Rhys was ready for the woman who literally flew at him. Catching her unaware, he wrapped his arms around her to stop her renewed assault on his already injured chest. When he did so, Howard saw the dagger and paled.

Rhys looked toward the door. Freedom beckoned. Tightening his grip on the dagger he drew his gaze back down to Lyonesse. He saw not the defeat of a vanquished foe, but the bitter agony of a young woman.

Rhys held Ryonne’s daughter in his grasp. Ryonne was a trusted ally. Surely the man’s daughter possessed a small measure of his honor. He’d already seen a glimmer of her loyalty and honor. Had grief caused her to become irrational? Could he take advantage of her and still live with himself?

So much had already been taken from her. Her betrothed. And soon her keep. No wonder she was at her wits’ end. Rhys could not take her pride. ’Twas all she had left. He would find another way out of this predicament.

A sliver of light flashed across his face. The gleaming tip of Howard’s sword pointed at his face with unwavering accuracy. Rhys relinquished the weapon he held to Howard’s outstretched hand.

Ignoring her halfhearted attempts to free herself, Rhys drew Lyonesse closer and held her face against his chest. “Hush.”

Whispering meaningless words of comfort, his thoughts raced to his sister’s inconsolable grief at their parents’ graves. Compassion flooded his heart. He was stunned by the urgent need to comfort the woman in his arms.

“Count Faucon. Nay, you must not. You cannot. ’Tis not seemly.”

Without looking at the man, Rhys shook his head at Howard’s half-completed sentences. He also paid scant attention to the meager struggles of the woman he held against his chest.

“Aye, you are correct, Howard. I should not.” His accusing gaze met the captain’s look of concern and illconcealed fear. “But do you not think someone’s lack of heart brought us all to this point? Why did nobody realize how du Pree’s death distressed your lady?”

For an answer Howard stared at the floor.

“Good lord, man, is there no one here who cares for your lady?”

While the captain walked out the door and issued quiet orders to the guards, Rhys stroked Lyonesse’s back.

Trembling fingers gripped his tunic. Her startling reaction surprised him. The warmth of tears seeped through the fabric of his clothing. Her choked sobs tore at his heart.

After lifting her in his arms, Rhys crossed the room and sat down on the floor. Resting his back against the wall, he settled her on his lap.

Gently, he pulled her tear-streaked face to his shoulder, coaxing, “’Tis all right, milady, I will not harm you.”

He fought the warring of his head and heart. He needed to find du Pree’s murderer. His own carelessness had allowed this woman to capture him. He was probably foolish to relinquish his chance at escape.

He should be angry. He should hate Lyonesse of Ryonne. But as illogical as it was, he didn’t. Against his better judgment, against all the memories his mind conjured, he felt something for this she-devil that he’d never felt before. Something in her pain and rage called out to his own.

Her sobs lessened, but her tears still warmed his chest.

He could not leave Lyonesse to live with her mistaken notion about him. Why it mattered, he did not know. Nor did he care to delve into any of his irrational reasoning this day.

“Milady…Lyonesse, is there no one you can go to? Someone who will make you laugh? One who can bring a ray of sunshine back into your days?”

She pushed against his chest. “No.”

Rhys lifted her chin with the crook of his finger and stared into her liquid gaze. It glittered with a brilliancy that rivaled a chest full of gems. Drawn unwillingly into the sparkling treasure trove he leaned closer.

The tantalizing scents of exotic spice and heady floral beckoned him still nearer. Their breath mingled, warm and moist between them. No more than a slight movement would bring their lips together once more. A space so close, yet more distant than the stars above.

A strangled cry left her lips. “Unhand me.” She pushed against his chest. He winced at the pain. This time Rhys did not stop her struggle for freedom.

Scrambling to her feet she pointed down at him. “You have taken away everything I had.” Her finger shook. “You destroyed every ray of sunshine I could ever hope to enjoy.”

Rhys stood up and grasped her shoulders before she could flee. He didn’t try to keep his frustration from his tone. “Never have I denied taking another man’s life. But I am tired of being accused of a murder I did not commit.” He shook her lightly. “Listen to me. I have been on the king’s business for nigh on a full year.”

Blood drained from her face, leaving behind a ghostly mask of disbelief and fear. Had he not been holding her so tightly, Rhys was certain she would have fallen.

“No.” Her hushed gasp sounded more like a plea to his ears.

“Yes.”

Barreling through the doorway, Howard crossed the room and grasped Rhys’s forearm. “’Tis enough, Faucon. No more. Let her maid take her now.”

Eager to be rid of this bewitching siren, Rhys released his grip on Lyonesse’s shoulders and allowed her maid to lead her away.

Rhys silently watched the two women and Howard leave the cell. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he stretched out on his straw-filled pallet and stared at the ceiling.

He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. It was imperative to his family that he complete his mission. It was imperative to his own well-being that he remove himself from the presence of this woman.

And do it quickly before this emptiness he felt at her leaving became a regular occurrence.

Chapter Four

She was a clodpolled onion-eyed dullard. Lyonesse tossed another handful of weeds onto the growing pile.

A lackbrained nitwit. Perspiration trickled down her forehead and dripped off the end of her nose.

Since she’d confronted Faucon yesterday, she’d called herself every bawdy name she could think of—yet none seemed to be the proper fit.

Another clump of dead weeds hit the pile. Maybe she could bury herself in the brown, soggy plant life she was pulling out of what would someday be an herb garden.

What possessed her? She knew the answer. Grief over Guillaume’s untimely death and fear of losing Taniere had stolen her sanity and common sense. Yet not even in her darkest moments of despair could she forget the lessons she’d dutifully learned—lessons that kept her from killing Faucon.

Right and wrong.

Good and evil.

Heaven and hell.

Brother Joseph had taught her by word, her father by example and deed. Her maid Helen had always seen to it that she never forgot the words, examples, nor the deeds.

For all their teaching and devotion, Lyonesse knew none of them could answer the questions that tormented her.

Did nothing fall between good and evil?

Could not something seem wrong and yet be right?

Lyonesse uncurled her legs from beneath her and sat on the damp, cold ground. Looking at the patch she’d cleared she wondered why she’d bothered. Less than a month from now King Stephen would take Taniere from her and all this work would be wasted.

Do not cry. She was done with tears. They gained her nothing more than an aching head and upset stomach.

Obviously, she needed to find a husband—quickly and she needed to release Faucon.

How and in which order was yet to be determined. Neither task would be easy.

Since she found killing Faucon an impossible feat, she needed to release him. The longer he remained at Taniere the more dangerous he became. His men would come and free him by force. Innocent lives would be lost.

Regardless of what her maid thought, Lyonesse doubted if finding a suitable spouse would be as simple as pointing at a man and bidding him “come hither” like some trained dog.

She wouldn’t want that kind of man.

She wanted Guillaume. Instead, she’d dutifully marry any man her father picked.

Her father was a warrior. A knight. A Lord. He would choose a man like himself. A man like…

Breathless, Lyonesse tried to shake the fearful thoughts from her mind. But they ran in circles, one more horror-filled than the last. Until they came to rest on the one thought that would strike many a lady dead.

Her sire would choose a man like Faucon.

The type of man who had killed not only his wife, but his newborn child. ’Twas said he’d shown no remorse for his deed. Nor had he shed a single tear for his loss.

The type of man who had no regard for women or for those weaker than himself. A man who laughed at death and had no respect for life.

Seeking protection from evil, Lyonesse quickly prayed, “Oh, Holy Mother, let my sire’s love for me be true. Let him never seal my fate thusly.” She pitied any woman who would become wife to that type of man.

The type of man she needed to remove from her keep. She was not lackwitted enough to believe that she could lead Faucon to the gate and bid him farewell with no fear of retribution. There had to be a way to convince him that it would be within his best interest to forget anything that had happened. How?

She’d not seen him since their encounter in the tower. But she had ordered Howard to permit Faucon limited freedom. He could move about the keep and the inner yard as long as he was under constant supervision and chained about the ankles and wrists.

Howard assured her that he would guard the prisoner himself. She’d made him swear to keep Faucon away from her.

“Milady! Lady Lyonesse! Come quick. Milady!”

“Blatherskite,” Lyonesse cursed as the screaming page ran toward her.

“Milady, look, look—”

She quelled the urge to shake the stuttering boy. “Michael, cease your blithering. Tell me what is wrong.”

Michael pointed frantically at the sky. “The king is coming! King Stephen, milady!”

Lyonesse bit back her sharp retort. Instead, she looked up.

Nay, the king had not sprouted wings and flown to Taniere. But Michael’s cries were justified. Only a king could own so regal a huntress.

If her eyes did not deceive her, a golden eagle dipped and soared against the backdrop of a cloudless sky. A low, breathless whistle left her lips as the bird swooped lower. Lyonesse wanted a closer look. She sent Michael for Howard and then climbed the ladder to the walkway.

Her father had long ago told her about goldens. But never had she seen one. She now understood his fascination with the eagle. While Lord Ryonne’s description enabled her to identify the raptor, his words of praise did little justice to its beauty.

Golden. They were well named. When the sun bounced off the many shades of brown, tan and white flecks, the bird truly did appear gold.

The eagle spiraled higher, almost out of sight, before falling into a dive that would carry a lesser bird crashing into the stone of the tower. Only the obvious strength and agility of this one pulled it out of its descent to circle round and round before beginning another ascent.

Bewitched, Lyonesse watched it perform the graceful dance over and over. Spiraling upward, diving down, screeching as it circled the tower. Again and again.

A strange notion entered her mind.

She pulled her attention from the eagle, shifting her gaze to the tower’s arrow slit. Even though she could not see into the cell from where she stood, she knew without the slightest doubt that Faucon stood at the window opening.

Sweat beaded on her brow. Her breath stopped when a shrill whistle answered the bird’s loud screech. As if on command, the eagle soared up and out to become lost in the forest.

After gaining her breath, she looked down at the bailey. All activity had ceased while the guards and the others had watched the bird along with her.

“I have never seen an eagle hunt a man before.”

Howard’s voice startled her. Lost in thought, she’d not heard him approach.

Lyonesse searched for a response that would placate not only those gathered below, but her own shaking nerves as well. Finally, she asked, “Would it not act in such a confused manner if it were ill or somehow injured?”

She hoped that her question carried down into the bailey. It was enough that she tasted the icy chill of fear. It would do no good for Taniere’s people to worry along with her.

Howard needed no coaching. He raised his voice, agreeing, “Aye, milady, if it were diseased it would act strangely. Surely the beast must have escaped from the king’s falconer.”

As the keep’s people dispersed and returned to their work, Lyonesse leaned closer to Howard. “Has there been any word of King Stephen’s presence in the area?”

He shook his head, leaving her with little hope. “Nay.”

Unwilling to speak her thoughts, yet unable to contain them, Lyonesse said, “Then this bird was sent by someone from Faucon.”

Howard looked out over the wall, then stiffened. “Aye, but ’tis worse than that, milady.”

“What…” Her question trailed off when she followed his line of sight.

The clearing between the dense forest and Taniere’s wall was an intentional manmade addition. Empty space provided an unobstructed view of any man or beast crossing the area.

At this moment Lyonesse was provided with a view of both. The man, dress in naught save black, mounted on an equally dark destrier, stared motionless across the distance.

Behind him, on what she could only assume was a falconer’s contraption, perched the golden.

The manner of the man’s dress and the eagle with him, gave her little doubt they were both from Faucon.

After swallowing hard, Lyonesse whispered, “Oh, Dear Lord, save us.” Stiffening her spine, she marched to the tower gatehouse and waited for Faucon’s harbinger of doom to approach her walls.

To her shock and dismay, the man turned his horse and rode back to the forest. While a confrontation may have frightened her, this action filled her with terror.

He would return for the man he knew resided within her walls.

The question now was when?

And with how many men?

If she lived through this day without taking a life, Lyonesse vowed to increase the rations left outside the gates for the poor. She rubbed a rose-scented oil into her lye-chapped hands. Could anything else go awry this day?

Helping with the washing had kept her from worrying so much about the man she held hostage and what would surely be an impending visit from his men. It hadn’t kept her from listening to Helen’s unending complaints.

Lyonesse patted a cool compress of elderflowers to the bridge of her nose and across each sunburned cheek. When her maid had finally stopped harping about Faucon, Helen had brought that demented eagle back to her attention. Without missing a stride, her maid groused about Faucon’s man. When those subjects had been thoroughly exhausted, Helen had busied her tongue with dire warnings about young girls who spent too much time in the sun.

Lyonesse sighed and left the chamber. If her only concern were freckles, she would be content.

Men’s loud laughter gave her pause halfway down the steep, narrow stairs. The boisterous noise bounced off the stone of the walls and echoed up the stairwell. She’d not heard this infectious sound since her father left last year to join the king. Her heart missed many beats. Surely he would not have come to Taniere without notice?

A deep voice barked with laughter at a ribald joke told by one of the other men. Lyonesse tensed as the familiar tone rang clear in her ears. Worry gave way to anger. Anger quickly simmered into rage.

Rapidly descending the remaining stairs, she saw Faucon standing at Howard’s side. The time the two men spent together discussing whatever they could discuss, was one matter. But to endure this man’s presence in her hall was another matter entirely.

She yelled at the only person who could explain this unwelcome and unwanted presence in her hall. “Howard!”

Lyonesse’s shout immediately brought the men’s merriment to a halt.

She pointed at the behemoth standing arrogantly in the center of the other men, and demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

Before Howard had a chance to answer, the object of the discussion interrupted. “Milady, this means nothing more than a fine evening’s meal in the company of a lovely lady.”

She ignored him and leveled her gaze on her maid. Lyonesse seethed inwardly, wishing she had the leisure to pale and flutter as Helen was doing now.

Chains clanged together as a large, warm hand closed over her fist and deftly pried her fingers open. After kissing her palm, he stated, “And nowhere have I seen a more beautiful creature than Taniere’s lioness.”

Lyonesse tore her gaze away from Helen’s wavering look, and stared down at her own hand. What sorcery had this Spawn of Satan used to bewitch her? Hot and cold tingles ran down to her toes when his lips briefly touched her skin. Was it the vile way he kissed her palm, instead of the back of her hand that caused the unsettling shivers? Or was it the devil’s wicked treachery?

She glanced up at him. The toad smiled at her as if he were attending a festive celebration, instead of rotting in the tower where he belonged. Why did Faucon act this way?

In keeping with a chivalrous code of conduct, she’d permitted him limited freedom. But had she not gone out of her way to show him how much she despised him? Faucon knew full well his presence in her hall was unwelcome.

It wasn’t for the lack of trying, but he’d not truly suffered any true physical or mental anguish under his confinement here. So why did he now play the simpleminded fool?

Her hopes for a peaceful end to this day fell to the hardened dirt floor and shattered like a fragile egg. Lyonesse willed her tongue to remain silent.

Never had a female impressed Faucon as much as the one standing before him now. It had to be difficult for Lyonesse to hold her outrage in check as well as she did. A less composed woman would have dissolved into hysteria by now. Or at the very least would have become too flustered to remain as visibly calm as Taniere’s vicious kitten appeared to be.

Her appearance did not deceive him one bit. Some might have missed the bright glaze of anger that he’d so quickly grown accustomed to seeing. Or not have noticed that her jawbone was too well defined. The normally heart-shaped face was pulled nearly into a square by the tightness of her muscles.

His assessment of her features did not go unnoticed. The lady’s eyes narrowed in apparent distaste before she tore her hand from his and wiped her palm across the folds of the vivid green gown she wore.

Rhys bowed his head slightly and reflected upon her name. Lyonesse. While it was true that her gold-red coloring was well suited for a feline, he wondered if she knew that her namesake had been a bastard in every sense of the word? Her grandsire had been blessed with a reputation that made Rhys’s presumed evilness pale in comparison.

Certain that she could see no other emotion upon his face but pleasant interest, Rhys deepened his smile. How many times had he been told that his wicked grin could cause even a nun to succumb to his charms?

“Lyonesse? How did you come to be named for your grandsire?”

A faint blush tinged her delicate complexion, making her appear more of a child than the oversized armor had. “I am certain my father had his reasons. I have never found myself churlish enough to question the name.”

Rhys ignored the jibe and offered his arm to lead the unwilling lady to the table. He held his snort of amusement as she rested her hand so lightly on his forearm that she barely touched his sleeve. Did she really believe that she could continue to assume such ladylike innocence? No lady would have dared to conceive his capture—let alone accomplished the feat.

By the saints, this was going to be an interesting evening. Even though he’d been free to walk about the keep, he’d been bored to his limits. He’d sought an opportunity to pay his captor back with a little of her own coin. Now that he was certain she’d regained her senses, Rhys looked forward to goading her. After seeing Jezebel this morning, he had an added boon. The knowledge that his men were nearby worked to his advantage with Howard. It’d been simple to convince the captain to permit him to attend the evening meal in the hall.

He placed his free hand on top of hers. The instant he wrapped his fingers around her wrist to effectively hold her near, Rhys wished he had not. The smooth, soft skin beneath his fingers reminded him of how long it’d been since he’d touched anything so warm and soft.

Even though he knew full well that he would drive himself to distraction, Rhys could not have stopped his thumb from stroking the silken flesh if he’d tried.

At first she flinched under his gentle touch, but made no move to pull free. He bent toward her, and groaned silently at the combined expressions of surprise and horror on her flushed face. She might have been betrothed to this du Pree, but his first impression had been perfectly correct; she was an untried girl.

He forced his thumb to stop its steady motion, and waved toward the table. “Shall we sit?”

She jerked away from him. “You should not be here. Be gone.”

“’Tis my greatest wish to be gone from here.” He looked at the door and snapped his fingers before looking back at her. “I willingly make you a deal. Have your guards release me and I will disappear from your life.”

She glared up at him. “You know I will not do that.”

After sighing loudly, Rhys shrugged. “Then I will be content to be your honored guest at this meal.”

Lyonesse narrowed her eyes as she glanced at the chains binding his wrists and ankles. She kept her voice low while agreeing, “Very well, ’tis not as if you can do much mischief with the jewelry you now wear.”

She signaled for Howard. “Count Faucon will be joining us for the meal.”

Rhys noted that the captain had enough decency to look ashamed. “Milady, I—”

Lyonesse cut him off with a wave of her hand. “It matters little, Howard. He is here and will be my guest. I am certain his presence will cause little harm.”

She looked back at Rhys and added, “Since I have already invited him, I doubt that he will decline my offer and return to his cell. However, should he think to try anything foolish, I would be delighted to have him become the main course.”

Ah, yes, it was going to be a grand meal. Amused, Faucon followed her retreating form to the table on the raised platform at the head of the hall and took the only seat available—the one next to her on the bench.

He tried to ignore the large tapestry hanging behind the table. The stunning needlework depicted a lion and his lioness, staring out as if guarding those seated below. A brief chill raced up his back and lifted the hairs on his neck. For a moment, Rhys wondered if this is what prey felt like right before an attack.

Howard mumbled curses as he secured Rhys’s leg shackles to the bench before taking a position against the wall behind them. Rhys wanted to laugh at the absurdity. What would he do in a hall crowded with Lyonesse’s men?

They were everywhere he looked; seated at the many trestle tables scattered about the great hall, standing in small groups alongside the whitewashed walls, leaning against arched support beams and lounging by the open fire off to one side. No, he would do nothing to incite those gathered for the meal.

He turned his attention back to his prey and touched the finely woven linen sleeve of her gown. “Ah, but were I to leave, I would not be able to tell you how the color of this gown makes your eyes sparkle like gems.”

She leaned away from him. “And I would not have to listen to your silly lies.”

He trailed his fingertip up the back of her arm to stroke a ribbon entwined in her loosely braided hair. “Or that your hair would be a magnificent silken veil were it loosened from its confinement.”

Rhys leaned closer, ignoring her soft gasp of shock at his familiarity, and touched the jewel-encrusted gold torque around her neck. “If it were not for me, you would never know that this collar and your hair should be your only adornment.”

He lowered his voice. “Just envisioning the sight could make any warrior wish to take you somewhere private to see if your beauty did indeed match his dreams.”

Her flaming face, blazing eyes and sudden intake of breath should have prepared him for the slap that landed on the side of his face.

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